"Swann! Show yourself!"
Quirrell's voice, hoarse with panic and the grinding fear of failure, echoed against the stone walls of the chamber. The darkness remained absolute, the Peruvian powder lingering stubbornly in the stale air.
Quirrell was not just angry; he was realizing the devastating truth that his entire mission might have been a carefully laid deception. He had almost captured the boy—the key to the Stone—only for Sebastian, his supposed ally, to materialize like a curse and snatch the victory away.
"This is not how our arrangement was supposed to conclude!" Quirrell shrieked, blindly lashing out with his wand. "I was within a hair's breadth of success! Give me Potter! He is the only catalyst that the Mirror will respond to! I am about to deliver the Philosopher's Stone to the Master!"
"I'm afraid I must decline," Sebastian's calm voice floated back from the darkness, infuriatingly close yet untouchable. "Potter isn't on the agenda for today, Quirrell. He has an appointment that supersedes your pathetic obsession with resurrection."
Quirrell felt a cold spear of suspicion pierce his already frantic heart. Decline? This man was behaving not like a fellow opportunist, but like the one in control. The one who had set the trap.
"This entire alliance… it was a falsehood, wasn't it?" Quirrell whispered, his voice cracking with betrayal. "You played me from the start! You are trying to steal the Stone for yourself! Or… are you somehow working with that old fool Dumbledore? You swore he was gone!"
"Fool!" a high, thin, furious voice rasped, vibrating with undisguised venom, muffled from directly beneath Quirrell's turban. "What does it matter if he is a thief or a fool? Destroy him! Kill this presumptuous cockroach and seize the child! Cast the Killing Curse, you simpering idiot!"
The command, raw and terrifying, spurred Quirrell into a fresh round of frantic, haphazard spellcasting. He aimed a torrent of curses—Stupefy, Petrificus Totalus, and even a complex, forbidden one known only as the Bone-Shattering Curse—all toward the origin of Sebastian's voice.
Harry, still shaking off the residual effects of the magic ropes, quickly used his newly freed wand to cast a rapid Finite Incantatem on the fabric binding him, severing the last strands. He scrambled up, heart pounding like a frantic drum, unwilling to simply crouch and wait for the end.
The darkness, thinned by the constant magical energy being expended, slowly began to clear. Harry blinked, his eyes adjusting to the faint, eerie glow cast by a stray, lingering Lumos charm on a distant wall.
And then he saw him.
Sebastian stood perhaps ten feet away, utterly relaxed, his wand still lowered, the picture of elegant boredom. He was protected by an invisible, shimmering transparent shield that completely encompassed his form.
Quirrell's onslaught of spells, even the terrible Bone-Shattering Curse, simply hit this barrier. They didn't shatter it; they didn't even make it wobble. They merely caused faint, circular ripples, like tiny pebbles dropped into a perfectly still pond, before dissolving harmlessly.
The Iron-Clad Curse? Harry wondered, staring at the sheer defensive power. The shield was nothing like the basic Protego they had learned, or even the enhanced defense charms of the Guardian Badge. The sheer resilience was mesmerizing and terrifying.
"This is not the time for magical theory, Harry," Sebastian's voice was low, and he didn't even spare a glance for the boy.
Harry snapped back to attention and hurried toward Sebastian's side, positioning himself safely behind the unbreakable barrier.
Quirrell stopped casting, his breath ragged, his arms trembling from the sheer magical exhaustion of pouring all his power into a futile attack. He glared at the invisible barrier, his bloodshot eyes full of disbelief.
"Have you exhausted your repertoire of parlor tricks, Professor Quirrell?" Sebastian asked, a cruel, mocking politeness dripping from his words. "I haven't even raised my wand, yet you have successfully exhausted your defenses and revealed the limits of your aggression. Are you sure you wish to continue this confrontation? Because if I am forced to retaliate, I assure you, your ability to flee will vanish entirely."
Quirrell was trapped. He was utterly outclassed. The realization hit him with the force of a full-body binding spell.
"KILL HIM! DO IT NOW!" Voldemort shrieked again, the voice thin and high-pitched with desperation.
Quirrell ignored the command. The risk of enraging Sebastian was far greater than the risk of defying his Master—for now.
"You didn't attend the Durmstrang events," Quirrell rasped, clutching his chest. "You lied to me all along. You claimed to be my informant, feeding me details about the defenses, but you were merely playing me for a fool! And Dumbledore? Is he hiding as well? Is this the moment you bring the whole pathetic Inquisition down upon me?"
"Calm yourself," Sebastian soothed, though the tone offered no real comfort. "I am quite alone, Quirrell. Dumbledore is not here. I am merely concluding our arrangement as agreed."
"Agreed? Agreed to what? To my humiliation?"
"No, to your salvation," Sebastian corrected coolly. "You speak of betrayal, but ask yourself honestly, Quirrell: who truly sustained you? If I had not subtly guided you toward the less-lethal means of survival, you would have consumed unicorn blood far sooner, turning yourself into a decaying half-monster. If I hadn't warned you of the ancient protection charm, you would have died the moment you first touched Harry Potter's skin. Tell me—has that thing clinging to your skull given you anything but fear and agonizing dependency?"
"Silence, viper! Do not attempt to sever the sacred bond between Master and servant!" The voice beneath the turban was now clear and sharp, cutting through the space with the sound of grinding metal. "Quirinas! Hold your tongue! Let me settle this impertinent debt face to face!"
The distinct clarity of the second voice, and the mention of "Master and servant," sent a fresh wave of paralyzing shock through Harry. His eyes darted to Quirrell's head, his mind reeling with the impossible realization: There is someone else in that scarf!
At that same moment, a searing, white-hot agony flared across Harry's forehead. The familiar, lightning-shaped scar felt as if it had been branded anew with a red-hot iron. The pain was excruciating, confirmation of the impossible truth.
Voldemort is here.
Harry gritted his teeth, enduring the blinding pain, forcing his eyes open to glare at the source of his torment and his deepest hatred.
Quirrell, trembling with a mixture of fear, shame, and the undeniable force of his master's will, raised his hands to his head. With a slow, horrifying motion, he began to unwrap the voluminous, purple silk turban.
Layer after layer of fabric fell away, pooling around his neck. Harry watched, transfixed by a sickening fascination, his hatred momentarily replaced by sheer, stomach-turning dread. He had braced himself for anything—a basilisk, a demon, a physical manifestation of pure shadow—but the reality was something far more unnatural and grotesque.
The back of Quirrell's head was crowned not with matted hair, but with a second, hideous human face .
The sight was utterly stomach-churning. The face was ash-gray, the pallor of a drowned corpse, stretched tightly over a skeletal frame. There was no flesh, no color, only taut, parchment-like skin clinging desperately to the bone, giving the appearance of being desiccated and starved. It was a withered, ghost-like mask of evil.
Instead of a recognizable nose, there were only two narrow, vertical slits, like a serpent's nostrils, through which it drew a low, sibilant breath. The eyes—vast, blood-red, and utterly devoid of iris or pupil—were like two searing embers of ice, staring out with an ancient, indescribable malice that promised only pain.
Harry's legs gave out. He stumbled back two steps, crashing into the cold stone of the pillar behind him. This… this thing… this is what killed my parents? The thought was unbearable. The spectral, parasitic creature was the ultimate villain he had heard whispers of since his childhood.
The initial nausea was instantly eclipsed by a white-hot furnace of rage. The memory of his parents, the searing pain of his scar, and the sight of this inhuman monstrosity ignited an uncontrollable fury.
"Voldemort!" Harry roared, fighting through the pain in his scar, taking a step forward despite his trembling knees. He pointed his wand, not at Quirrell, but directly at the horrifying, secondary face. "You are the fiend who murdered my family! I swear, you will not obtain the Stone! You will not be resurrected!"
The repulsive face twisted into a caricature of a smile, a chilling, hissing sound emanating from the snake-like slits.
"Ah, the legendary boy who defeated the great Dark Lord," Voldemort sneered, his voice surprisingly high and chilling. "Very good, Harry Potter. I do so admire courage. Your parents displayed the same admirable but ultimately foolish spirit, which is why I rewarded their bravery with the swift mercy of the Killing Curse. They died without undue pain."
The red eyes fixed themselves on Harry, trying to penetrate the boy's mind, to offer a final, irresistible temptation.
"Do you wish to know your mother's final words? The last things she screamed as she begged for your wretched life? Come, boy. Help me secure the Stone, and I shall tell you everything."
"NEVER! You monster! I wish I could kill you right now!" Harry screamed, pure, unadulterated hatred pouring out of him. He didn't think about spell strength or consequence. He just acted.
He raised his wand and lashed out with the only permanent spell he knew.
"Depulso!"
A rush of crimson light shot from Harry's wand. But before it could reach the hideous face, Quirrell, despite his terror, instinctively conjured a basic, reflexive Shield Charm. Harry's kinetic spell slammed into the shield, dissipating harmlessly with a brief flash.
Harry gritted his teeth, preparing to launch another, more powerful spell, but Sebastian's hand shot out from behind him, gripping his shoulder with immense, cold strength.
"Easy, Harry. Your turn is over," Sebastian murmured, holding the boy firmly in place.
Voldemort's hideous face turned its attention back to Sebastian, his red eyes blazing with contempt.
"Foolish child! Do you truly believe you can oppose me? You will die at my hand, and I will prove to the entire world that this… this Professor Swann is nothing but a pestilence on the face of magic!"
Before the Dark Lord could unleash a fresh torrent of megalomaniacal threats, Sebastian cut him off, his voice dropping to a low, dangerously silky register that brooked no argument.
"Lord Dark Lord, why are we wasting time arguing with a child's tantrum?" Sebastian inquired, his posture radiating cool, lethal authority.
He fixed his gaze directly on the grotesque face plastered to the back of Quirrell's head.
"You came here to talk to me, did you not? I am here. Let's conduct our business."